


None The Wiser

by renegade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Community: makinghugospin, Gen, M/M, Sickfic, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renegade/pseuds/renegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has to get his wisdom teeth and in order not to bother his friends, he hires a stranger from the internet to be his babysitter for the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None The Wiser

**Author's Note:**

> Filling my own prompt on the kinkmeme because I can.
> 
> The concept of hiring someone to take care of you when you get your wisdom teeth out is shamelessly stolen from [this episode](http://vimeo.com/44213534) of The Outs. You don't need to watch it but you should because it's a great series.

Enjolras hates being a burden on his friends. Especially for something so insignificant as wisdom teeth removal. Of course, he has to have all four removed, which means he's going to be mostly out of commission for at least a week. Maybe two. Luckily, he already has the next meeting planned and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are perfectly capable of leading it. Enjolras will still go, but he probably won't say much, depending on the pain.

But he still needs to arrange for someone to drop him off and pick him up. And help him to his apartment. And maybe make sure he doesn't overdose on painkillers because he lives alone and no one would know. His friends would know, but by the time they'd know, he'd most likely already be dead.

He wonders if he can send out a plea on Craigslist and not get a murderer or sexual predator. Chances are probably slim. He looks anyway, on the off-chance that someone is offering people-sitting services. Is that a thing? It should be.

_It's called babysitting, moron_ his brain helpfully supplies.

That's how Enjolras ends up looking through pet-sitter posts on Craigslist. Surely one of these people would be okay with watching _Enjolras_ for a day. Babysitters are mostly teen girls, which he is not _opposed_ to, but he wants a licensed driver. He keeps scrolling, slowly losing hope because he's starting to get self-conscious about randomly emailing someone on Craigslist. He was stupid to think that it was a good idea.

**ODD JOBS FOR EXTRA $$$**

Enjolras can work with odd jobs. “Please don't be a sex thing,” he pleads to himself, clicking on the link hesitantly.

_I'm low on cash and I'm willing to do odd jobs for some extra money. Cleaning house, walking your dog, feeding your cat, watering your plants, mowing the lawn, etc. I'm not really a kid person but I can keep them alive if you need a babysitter. Prices are negotiable!!_

Seems promising enough. There isn't a name or a picture, but Enjolras doesn't really need to know what this person looks like. He uses one of his throw-away emails to respond to the post. He really hopes he doesn't regret this.

•

Grantaire, it turns out, is a painter and he needs extra money for supplies. He doesn't have a car but he can borrow his roommate's. He's around Enjolras' age but got his wisdom teeth out years ago and knows how shitty it is, so he can sympathize. They exchange numbers and talk about payment and then Enjolras goes to bed. He got the earliest appointment possible tomorrow and he wants to be able to wake up in the morning.

•

Enjolras calls Grantaire three times before he's driving up in front of his apartment. It's _raining_ , for heaven's sake, and his appointment is at eight. “You're late,” he grumbles as he climbs into Grantaire's car.

“We still have fifteen minutes to get to the office, I'm doing fine,” Grantaire responds. He's wearing sunglasses.

“Are you hungover?!” Enjolras cries. “You know what? I can take a taxi and fend for myself. Forget about it.”

“No—wait, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “I swear I'm sober. I stopped drinking when you got in touch with me last night so I'd be able to get up this morning. Give me a chance.”

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Fine. But only because I'll be late if I get a taxi,” he finally says begrudgingly.

Grantaire pulls away from the curb and gets Enjolras to the dentist's office in ten minutes. “Do you want me to go inside, wait here, or what?” he asks when he parks. “You're going to be pretty out of it when you wake up.”

“I'll manage,” Enjolras says tightly. “Stay in here and nap off the rest of your hangover.”

Grantaire sighs and unlocks the door so Enjolras can get out. Enjolras opens his umbrella as he steps out into the parking lot and trudges his way toward the office. He's the first appointment of the day, so he doesn't have much time to wait before they lead him into surgery.

The last thing Enjolras remembers is the nurse putting the anesthesia mask over his nose and mouth and telling him to count backwards from ten. He gets to five before his eyes close and it's all blank from there.

•

“Hey there, buddy,” a voice says as Enjolras' eyes begin to open. He blinks a few times. An unfamiliar face is leaning down and looking at him with a smile on his face. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

Enjolras lets out a muffled sound. Gauze in his mouth make it hard to say much else. He tries to sit up, only for the world to start spinning. “Whoa, whoa, hey,” Grantaire says, hands on his shoulders and righting him. “There you go. How are you feeling?”

Enjolras blinks at him a few times. He doesn't feel much of anything. “Where am I?” he mumbles around the gauze.

“Dentist's office. You just had your wisdom teeth removed,” Grantaire replies. “Here, let me help you up.” He lifts Enjolras' arm around his shoulder and snakes his own arm around Enjolras' waist.

“Who are you?” Enjolras asks while Grantaire tries to navigate both of them out of the office.

“Your ride. I drove you here and I'm driving you back and watching over you for a couple hours while the anesthetic wears off,” Grantaire explains. “You're paying me?”

“Oh, okay,” Enjolras mumbles, leaning all his weight against Grantaire. Grantaire sighs and squeezes his waist tighter to keep him upright. They end up getting wet because Grantaire can't wrestle with the umbrella and hold Enjolras up at the same time.

“Sorry, sorry,” Grantaire apologizes as he helps Enjolras into the car. “You okay?”

Enjolras takes a moment before nodding. “Your eyes are really blue,” he mumbles. Grantaire laughs and buckles Enjolras in. Enjolras watches Grantaire circle around the car and get into the driver's seat, cursing. “You're wet,” he points out.

“Thank you for noticing,” Grantaire laughs. “I am very wet.”

Enjolras giggles. “Wet,” he repeats.

Grantaire raises his eyebrows at Enjolras but doesn't say anything else as he backs out of his parking space. Enjolras leans his head against the window and watches the rain hit the glass. “D'you ever wonder how rain _works_?” Enjolras asks after a few moments of watching it. His brain feels cloudy, just like the sky. He wonders if it's raining in his head too. It certainly feels that way.

“It comes from the clouds, I know that much. It's been a while since I've taken a science class...” Grantaire answers. “I think I like drugged Enjolras more. You're funny.”

Enjolras tears his gaze away from the window and looks over at Grantaire with a sleepy smile. It hurts his cheeks a little and he winces. He likes Grantaire. Grantaire has nice eyes and curly dark hair and he's strong enough to carry Enjolras upright. Combeferre, of course, could have done it, and so could have Courfeyrac or a number of Enjolras' friends, but they would also record any nonsensical things Enjolras says and send to everyone.

When they get to Enjolras, Grantaire helps him out again, and this time is armed with the umbrella even though they're already wet. “Hang on,” Grantaire says, grabbing a few pieces of gauze that they gave Enjolras in his little post-removal care bag. He wipes Enjolras' mouth a little. “You're like... drooling blood.”

He helps him out with one arm, the other one holding the umbrella above them, and tries to get Enjolras' feet to move. “I'm tired,” Enjolras explains. “I want to sleep.”

“You can sleep when you get inside,” Grantaire grunts as tries to hold Enjolras up with one arm and balance the umbrella in the other.

Enjolras hums and wraps both arms around Grantaire's waist. Grantaire stiffens under his arms. “Sleep,” Enjolras says, stroking the side of Grantaire's face and then putting his head on his shoulder and closing his eyes.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire squeaks, tapping him a few times. “We're almost inside. I'm gonna need you to let go of me so we can get up the stairs.”

Enjolras doesn't budge. He just nuzzles his face a little into Grantaire's shoulder. He smells nice, like fresh rain and deodorant with a hint of cigarettes. Grantaire whines and then closes the umbrella, wrapping his arms around Enjolras to haul him up the stairs.

“Whoa, nice place,” Grantaire breathes when they get into Enjolras' apartment. “You live here alone? What do you _do_ for a living?” He deposits Enjolras onto the couch and takes the bag he's holding from him. Enjolras' eyes are still closed. He struggles to open them, looking blearily at Grantaire.

“Nonprofit,” he mumbles. Grantaire is suddenly holding out water and two little pills for him. He gives Grantaire a blank look, who just sighs and puts them down on the coffee table. “I run a nonprofit.” Not to mention, he works at a law firm, but that's simply too many words for Enjolras to string together right now.

“Impressive,” Grantaire says. “Do you want to watch a movie, nap, anything?”

Enjolras would like to nap. He situates himself on the couch and Grantaire pulls a blanket over his body. It's warm and soft against his skin, and he finds himself stroking the blanket absently.

“Goodnight, Grantaire,” Enjolras sighs. Grantaire laughing is the last thing Enjolras hears.

•

When he wakes up, the anesthetic has mostly worn off and now the pain is setting in. He moans pitifully. He can feel terrycloth under his cheek, and he lifts his head up to see that Grantaire put a towel under his head. It was good forethought, because there is a horrifying amount of blood in his mouth.

“You're not supposed to spit it out,” Grantaire's voice comes from the kitchen. “Swallow it.”

If Courfeyrac was here, he probably would have given Grantaire a high-five for that one. Grantaire comes into the living room, where Enjolras is whimpering in the fetal position on the couch, and picks up the water and pills he left on the table earlier. “Here, take these. Do you think you can stomach cold soup or pudding or something?”

Enjolras takes the pills and winces in pain. “It hurts to open my mouth,” he manages, barely opening his mouth to say it.

“Yeah, that happens,” Grantaire says. “Um, do you want to watch a movie or something? I'm available all day, if you want. But it's going to cost extra if you want me to watch you overnight.”

Enjolras shakes his head and then groans again. Fuck, that hurts. “Ice,” he grits out. He needs to ice his face. He can already feel the swelling in his cheeks and jaw and it's incredibly uncomfortable. Grantaire gets up and hurries over to the freezer, rifling through it before finding a bag of peas. Enjolras would protest, tell him to get the ice pack, but that's too many words, so he just accepts the frozen bag of peas and puts them against his cheek. Much better.

Grantaire sits on the opposite end of the couch. “I'll just... put on a movie,” he says after an awkward silence. Enjolras makes a vague gesture to the wall where all his movies are. Grantaire goes over, looking at all the cases of Enjolras' small movie collection. “What's with all this film noir shit?” Grantaire asks. “You're so lame.”

Enjolras raises a middle finger at Grantaire's back, still holding the peas to his face.

“Well, you have _Moulin Rouge!_ , so I guess you're not completely awful,” Grantaire says, plucking it off the shelf and turning on Enjolras' TV. “Seriously, how do you have such nice stuff and all you do is run a nonprofit? Or is that like, a money laundering scheme? Are you actually a drug dealer?”

Enjolras could scream. Instead he flaps his hands to get Grantaire's attention, who just turns around. “Use you words, Enjolras,” he says with a shit-eating grin. That earns him another raised middle finger. Enjolras makes a motion with his hand to signify writing. “Oh,” Grantaire says. “Pen and paper. Got it.”

He rifles through Enjolras' drawers to find a pen and paper, and Enjolras wants to yell at him to stop messing everything up, but Grantaire comes back with a marker and a sketchbook. Enjolras does not own a sketchbook. At his inquiring look, Grantaire blushes a little. “It's mine. I was drawing while you were asleep to entertain myself. Just turn to a blank page and use that.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow but uncaps the pen.

_First of all, fuck you_ he writes in loopy script. _Second of all, I am not a drug dealer or doing anything illegal. I also work at a law firm but nonprofit was easier to say. I just got four teeth removed, remember?_

Grantaire nods. “Sorry,” he says without sounding sorry at all. “I'm still putting in _Moulin Rouge!_ though.”

_And third of all, I have great taste in movies_ Enjolras adds. Grantaire snorts.

•

The painkillers kick in sometime _Rhythm of the Night_. Enjolras' hands feel a little numb and he's very aware of his tongue in his mouth. Grantaire lounges on the chair next to the couch, watching the movie with vague interest and drawing in his sketchbook.

“You doing alright?” Grantaire asks when he notices Enjolras flexing his fingers.

“Can't feel my hands,” he mumbles. “Hands are so weird.”

Grantaire stifles a laugh. “Yes, they are very weird. Do you want something to eat?”

On screen, Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor shimmy on the dancefloor.

Enjolras nods once and his vision blurs for a second. No nodding, then. He continues watching the movie while Grantaire gets up to get him food.

Enjolras can't tell if he's tripping or if this movie makes no sense. He knows he's seen it before, he _owns_ it, but he's drawing a blank on what this movie is even about. Singing and dancing? There are so many _colors_ and he's seen at least three dwarfs.

Grantaire comes back with lukewarm tomato soup and a fresh glass of water. “Can I get you anything else?” he asks when he sets it down on the coffee table.

“I want a bedroom like that,” Enjolras says, watching Nicole Kidman writhe on a bed. “It's red.”

Grantaire snorts and sits back down. “I can't get you that,” he says. He starts sketching. Enjolras tears his eyes away from the TV screen to look over at him.

“What are you drawing?” he asks curiously.

Grantaire clears his throat and a faint blush appears on his unshaven cheeks. “Nothing,” he says with a shrug. “Just stuff.”

“What _kind_ of stuff,” Enjolras pesters. He needs to know. He wants to see what Grantaire is drawing and shower him in compliments if it's any good.

Grantaire shakes his head and erases something on his paper. “Keep watching the movie,” he says, pointing at the screen without looking up. Enjolras does what he is told and goes back to watching the movie. Grantaire sings under his breath to _Your Song_ as he continues to draw.

Enjolras stays quiet for some time. His entire body is devoid of pain, especially his mouth, and he's able to stomach the soup. “Grantaire?” he finally says. Grantaire hums in response. “Why did you agree to this?”

“To helping you?” he asks, stopping his drawing and looking up. His head is cocked to the side. Enjolras finds it weirdly adorable—that's strange, he never finds anyone 'adorable.' Puppies are cute, sure, but people? He can appreciate aesthetically pleasing people, almost everyone he knows falls under that category, but Grantaire is _different_.

Maybe Enjolras is really loopy.

“Because I wanted to help you,” Grantaire continues. “And you were going to pay me. Like I said, I'm low on cash and I'm willing to do nearly anything.”

“Would you have sex for money?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire chokes a little. “I—I don't think we know each other well enough for me to answer that?”

“So yes?”

“I think you need more painkillers,” Grantaire mumbles, standing up and getting the prescription bottle and shaking one more out.

Enjolras shakes his head. “I need a new ice pack,” he states, handing the thawing peas over to Grantaire. Grantaire sighs and takes them. He comes back with frozen carrots and Enjolras settles back down again.

“You never answered my question,” Enjolras says after another moment.

“Aren't you supposed to be unable to speak?” Grantaire groans. “I haven't had sex for money but I would do it if someone asked, okay?”

Enjolras gets distracted by Satine and Christian dancing in space, or something. Enjolras wouldn't mind dancing in space.

“I want to dance in space,” he says out loud.

“Okay,” Grantaire laughs. “I'll be sure to arrange that.”

Enjolras has seen this movie, he knows he has, but he doesn't remember any of it. So he's not prepared for Satine's death at the end.

“Are you _crying_?” Grantaire asks. “Have you—have you not seen this movie before?!”

“No!” Enjolras says, wiping at his eyes and wincing when he puts pressure on his face. He puts the carrots back against his jaw. “I've seen it before, I just forgot she died, alright? And I'm not crying.”

“Right,” Grantaire laughs. “It's just raining on your face?”

Enjolras flips Grantaire off.

•

The sun is going down and Grantaire is still at his apartment. They've watched two more movies and switched back to frozen peas. He's taken another painkiller and he struggles to keep his eyes open.

“So I think I'm done here...” Grantaire says, standing and stretching. Enjolras cracks an eye open and nods. He points toward the kitchen, hoping Grantaire will get the hint and know that's where his money is. “I already found it. Thanks.”

Enjolras nods, shifting the carrots on his face. “No, thank you,” he mumbles. “For staying all day. You didn't have to.”

Grantaire shrugs. “It's okay,” he says. “I didn't have anything better to do and you're good company.”

“Well if you ever want to do another odd job—I'm sure I can find something,” Enjolras says, waving his hand vaguely.

Grantaire chokes on a laugh. “You have my number,” he says, shouldering his backpack and saluting Enjolras before heading out.

•

Enjolras is rearranging the pillows on his couch a week later. A nasty bruise has formed under his chin and his jaw, but other than that, he doesn't look like a chipmunk anymore and he's not popping painkillers like they're candy. Under the cushion of the chair, he finds a sketchbook. That's funny, he doesn't _own_ a sketchbook. The last person who owned a sketchbook who was in his house was _Grantaire_.

Truth be told, he doesn't remember much of that day. He remembers sparkling blue eyes and a kind smile and unruly black hair. He remembers strong hands holding him upright. He distinctly remembers the smell of cigarettes.

He knows he shouldn't look at something that is probably private, but Grantaire _left_ it here. He flips it open to the last page with writing on it.

_Enjolras,_

_You asked me what I was drawing while you were loopy on painkillers. You probably don't remember it. But you said you wanted a room like the one in the movie. It's not colored in but I didn't bring my colored pencils with me._

_~~From~~ ~~Regards~~ ~~Sincerely~~  
Grantaire_

It's a drawing of the elephant room from the movie, but Grantaire has drawn Enjolras (fully clothed, thankfully) on the bed. Despite the sheer ridiculousness of it, it's well-done.

Enjolras stares at it for a few long moments before pulling his phone out.

**To: Grantaire  
I found a job for you if you're up to it xx**

**Author's Note:**

> if you think the job Enjolras has for Grantaire is a blowjob you would be correct
> 
> ALSO, I'm willing to take prompts. Either here or at my [my fandom tumblr](http://darthtveitor.tumblr.com/). Please no noncon/dubcon, eating disorder, suicide, cutting, etc. prompts.


End file.
